


Celebrations

by aphelion_orion



Category: Guilty Gear
Genre: Bathtubs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphelion_orion/pseuds/aphelion_orion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ky's various birthdays, throughout the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Celebrations

He can't remember the first few times. Whatever recollections he has of that period are so vague they can't even be called that, a formless, impenetrable fog. Sometimes, an impression surfaces—the feeling of a thumb brushing over his fingers, the sound of a voice, but no words, the scent of drying thyme—but nothing specific. Certainly not exact dates.  
  
The first memories, clear memories, are from when he was five or six, old enough to count the candles by balancing on a stool, leaning across plates and cups to point at them one by one. Still, these tend to get mixed up, misplaced—he's not exactly sure anymore which time it was that he got a stomach ache from eating too many sweet prunes, or when it happened that the window gave during a particularly vicious storm, sending snow and glass raining into the kitchen. He can still recall how they had to beat a strategic retreat to his parents' bedroom because there was no way to board up the pane, and how they all had cake on the bedspread, laughing and eating the slices with their bare hands, crumbs spilling everywhere.  
  
It bothers him that he can't quite place the events, not like he can place events now, remembering in detail what he did on any day a year ago, or two, or even three—figures, dates, maps. Back then, it wasn't necessary to have that kind of memory, and he doesn't like to dwell on the past too much, afraid he'll end up turning what he can't remember into something it isn't, because that's how the human memory works.  
  
Nothing at nine or ten, not with fifty other children in need of food and shelter, and barely enough money to provide for any of them. But there was always something that needed doing, errands and yard work and finding a handful of little ones in his bunk come nightfall, that it entirely slipped his mind.   
  
It didn't come up again for a while after that, and when it did, the day was moved to summer because half the trainees in his batch didn't even know when they were born. So there was just a single day for everyone in the group where Kliff would carry out a huge misshapen thing that tasted distinctly of brandy, and they got pink cream all over their uniforms because the filling kept melting off their forks in the heat. He even managed to get some in his hair, because he was short and easy to reach and people had some unfathomable obsession with making an utter mess of his head.  
  
Thirteen he spent in a trench, soaked to the bone with mud pouring down into the ditch, screaming orders into a sputtering radio unit because his squad leader was bleeding out in the darkness some ten feet away and there was no one else to give the commands.  
  
Fourteen found him equally covered in grime, snarling and wriggling furiously under an iron grip, with a weight on his back and a puff of breath hot against his ear—"…Yield?"—and the rush of adrenaline when the discharge snapped the other man straight into the wall. It didn't win him the match, of course, but it gave him the distinct satisfaction of watching Sol jolt himself on his own belt buckles for the next few hours.  
  
Then there was the last of March, though they got him out of critical some four days before that, but the last of March was when he woke up long enough to ascertain that the front line was stable, and to order someone to bring him something to do. When he woke again, there was a precarious pile sitting next to his bed, and a figure hunched over in a folding chair, pen scratching sharply across the paper, muttering about stupid fucking kids and their stupid fucking suicidal plans.  
  
He never did get around to saying thank you for that one, but that is just as well. Sol has a thing about having his own kindness shoved in his face, so Ky has come to be quiet about it.  
  
Like now.  
  
Like now, when it's below freezing outside and he's sitting in what amounts to a hot tub, on a mountainside miles away from modern sanitation. Sometimes, when the wind changes direction, it's sending gusts pushing through the gaps in the tent flap, but he can hardly feel a thing. It's small wonder fire users tend to be everyone's favorite person.  
  
Of course, the arrangement being what it is, bathing is more an exercise in math than anything else, trying to remember angles and trajectories so he won't end up jabbing his elbows or his skull into any part of Sol's body, or bend forward too much and risk tipping the rickety contraption over on its side.  
  
Sol hasn't moved very much, breath tickling the top of his head because Sol put his chin there, a gesture that Ky would mind more outside the tub than in it. He hasn't said anything in the past few minutes, but Ky knows he's still awake because he can't even be quiet about sleeping.   
  
Ky can feel his toes curling every so often, wedged underneath his heel. They wound up there when Sol was trying to find some space for his legs, and it's odd how that draws his attention, a tiny idiosyncrasy that doesn't have any significance, save for the fact that it never occurred to him that Sol might do such a thing.   
  
Then again, nothing about this would have occurred to him. The idea that there is suddenly something nice to add to his day, something to look forward to at the end of a week on a frozen battlefield, is slightly disconcerting. Ky doesn't like to dwell on this, either, and what it all means, still not used to wanting things.  
  
Instead, he cups both hands to scoop up the water, and lets it trickle back down.   
  
"It's getting cool."  
  
A huff from the vicinity of his temple as Sol shifts a little, and it isn't long until steam is rising from the surface again.  
  
"I should have you pay me for this."  
  
"I thought I was paying you."  
  
"My interest rates are on the rise."  
  
"Oh," he says, extricating an arm to reach behind himself and up, fingers groping for the nape of Sol's neck. "You're awfully expensive on the upkeep."  
  
Sol mutters something about fuel efficiency that he doesn't quite catch, but it doesn't matter. It's new, this not-mattering. His fingers burrow deeper, twisting. It feels a bit like combing through a hand brush.  
  
Usually, he can barely calm his mind, always working through twenty different things at once, grateful for every dull, repetitive task because it helps him to relax, and not think. This, he's discovered, any facet of this, is nicer than peeling potatoes.  
  
"What time is it?"  
  
"Twelvish."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Don't tell me you were planning on doing some midnight pencil-pushing."  
  
"Not today, no."  
  
"Will miracles never cease. Did they finally issue a decree and make this the International Day of No Paperwork?"  
  
Ky smiles. "Nothing that special."  
  
"So?"  
  
"I just thought we could start negotiations for your interest rates in a bit."  
  
"In a bit?"  
  
"Yeah," he murmurs, leaning back. His biceps is starting to cramp from the angle, but he doesn't much care. "In a bit."

 

 

 

-Fin-


End file.
